


beg for you

by a_stankova



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/F, Grinding, Lesbian Sex, Post-Episode: s11e07 Kerblam, Smut, Soft Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan, The Doctor/Yasmin Khan - Freeform, Thirteen/Yaz - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stankova/pseuds/a_stankova
Summary: post 'Kerblam!'Yaz doesn't want them to be strangers anymore.





	beg for you

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic for thasmin! Let me know what you all think!  
> I'm @turtledove_51 on Twitter, come say hi!

Yasmin Khan’s tears never begin in her eyes.

It had been the right thing to do, she knows that. Dan Cooper was a good man, kind and witty and all about his kid, and Yaz knows that, even back on Earth, men like that are few and far between. His daughter had deserved to know how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, and she’d deserved to have her necklace back, as heavy as it may sit around her tiny neck. PC Khan doesn’t have much experience yet with bereaved family members, still exclusively restricted to parking disputes, but she’d been good at the simulations in the academy, and she’s no stranger to exercising her patience when it comes to children – her sister had required a special amount.

Maybe she’d thought it’d be easier because they’re on a different planet, hundreds of years in the future. But damn, it’s still real life; it’s hard and it’s happening, and Dan Cooper’s little girl looks so lost and alone that Yaz suddenly feels stifled, panicked, desperate to find the right words to soothe this girl.

But nothing can soothe her, not even her mother, who wraps her up in her arms and weeps silently into her hair. Yaz feels sick, feels like she’s intruding, forces herself up on wobbly legs and whispers again just how _sorry_ she is.

They ought to scream at her – Yaz is sure that she would, in their shoes. But they’re two of the kindest people Yaz has ever met, and that makes it worse. They thank her through their tears, wish her well, and Yaz has never fled from anywhere so fast in her life, desperate not to cry where she has no right to.

She’s walking fast, arms wrapped around herself, throat tight and her cheeks hot. She wants off this planet, needs to be back in the safety of the TARDIS, needs to lose herself in space somewhere. 

She spies the Doctor up ahead, by the little blue box. She’s leaning, back against the wall with her hips jutting outward, an invitation to grab hold; her feet are crossed at the ankles and her hands are stuffed deep into the pockets of her trousers. Her yellow suspenders peak through her coat, flashing like her earring cuff in the sun, bright and brilliant as the short blonde locks around her face and the soft, almost proud smile she wears.

Yaz stares – what else can she do? She is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, which makes sense because she isn’t even human. This kind of unashamed, ethereal radiance exceeds the margins of humanity – it’s why art exists, the only medium that can capture such infinity. It’s the image that gods and goddesses were created in. And maybe the Doctor _is_ the root of all art and myth, the root of Earth’s entire history – maybe a beautiful, complex time traveller had fallen from the sky one day, as so often happens, and maybe that person, in all their beauty and complexity, had redefined everything that the human race had ever thought they’d known.

She’s beautiful, and she’s strong, having endured things that Team TARDIS can’t even begin to guess. Yaz has brushed off the gaps in the picture as a factor of time, more than once, because they’re always running and planning and solving and so there really isn’t much time for personal stories. Plus, she knows how old the Doctor is — she has enough stories to outlast all of them combined, stories from every corner of a universe that they hadn’t even scratched the surface of. 

But sometimes one of them will ask something, about home or family or childhood, and the Doctor will twitch ever so slightly. Yaz will see her swallow down what seems to be a difficult memory, and suddenly they’ll be talking about something completely different, or falling around the TARDIS as the Doctor haphazardly plunges them into another problematic, athletic adventure, wearing a cheeky grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

For all the stories they’ve been told, they know nothing about her – nothing substantial, nothing fundamental. She’s an unfinished painting, made of incomplete strokes, missing colour where it matters the most, and the negative space around her seems only to highlight the surface of her practical, lighthearted personality. 

Yaz realises now that she knew more about Dan Cooper, and that’s not fair.

Because the Doctor sure as hell knows everything about _her_ by now. Like, for example, the fact that her shoulders shake before she starts to cry — Yaz can feel it now, a terrible wracking overcoming her arms, and she knows the Doctor can see it, too, for she’s up off the wall and stepping towards her in a matter of seconds. 

Yaz wants to go to her, really she does, wants nothing more than to sink into the warmth of her neck and her coat, and cry for all she’s worth, cry for the little girl who’ll never see her father again. But as she looks at her, all softness and radiance, she sees hard edges that hadn’t been there before, sees shadows and dark corners, and doors that might never open.

It’s unfair, and it hurts to walk past her, but she knows undoubtedly that it would hurt less than opening up to someone who may never trust her enough to be equally as vulnerable.

The TARDIS accepts her – it’s like she knows – and Yaz follows the corridor down to her room, tears finally slipping freely down her cheeks as the image of the Doctor’s crestfallen face flicker through her mind, searing as fire.

 

 

They float through space for a while – Yaz isn’t sure how long she’s been alone, as she doesn’t have a regular sun to mark the days by. Ryan had knocked on her door only a short time after she’d hidden herself away – I’m not hungry, she’d told him, just needing a bit of time to myself. Graham had tried after that, encouraging her to come see the meteor shower that was apparently taking place – no thanks. she’d said, I’m gonna get some sleep.

That had been at least two days ago. At least two days since she’d seen the Doctor, and the hollow ache inside her soul hasn’t seemed to lessen any – if anything, it has grown wider with questions, deeper with desires that she shouldn’t have and feelings that she won’t act on.

It’s hot and muddled inside her own head, and she wishes for nothing more than the sound of the Doctor laughing, carefree and angelic, because she knows deep down that with that one fluid melody, all will be right with the cosmos and her heart.

She should’ve gone to her on Kandoka, should’ve allowed herself to be comforted instead of giving in to her anger at being shut out over and over. There would’ve been time to address that, after, and if the problem still remained then they could’ve addressed it. But this – this awkward, uncertain limbo that her stubbornness has forced them into – is doing nothing for her, and she can only imagine what the Doctor must be feeling.

Maybe she’s overtired, or maybe she missed the lesson on the TARDIS’s telepathic abilities, but when the door to her bedroom clicks open and reveals a hallway she’s not sure she’s seen before, she doesn’t hesitate to investigate it. It’s long and winding, leads her to a library of sorts, lined with books and maps and manuals, and on the far side of the room there is a large window, and through it, Yaz can see the whole of time and space, intricate and dancing in one luminous blur of colour.

It is beyond beautiful – art could never quite capture it.

Entranced, she almost misses the presence of a woman behind her, who reaches out with tentative fingers to touch her shoulders. “Where’ve you been?” The Doctor murmurs, voice soft and sad near her ear.

And, God, has she missed her.

“My room, and here,” Yaz says quietly, staring out into space and trying not to concentrate too much on the feeling of the Doctor’s hands cupping her arms. “The TARDIS showed me the way.”

“Mm,” she hums, with a smile that Yaz can feel. “I’m sure she did. She likes you, y’know?”

“Does she?”

The Doctor hums again, stepping a little closer to Yaz’s back, her hands still firm on Yaz’s arms. “She’s an excellent judge of character.”

Yaz can’t help herself. “And you’re not?”

The hands on her arms squeeze a little, and she can feel the woman tense behind her. Yaz sighs a little, because of course that would be her reaction. Nothing’s changed.

She’s overcome with the urge to leave but she’s held in place, frozen by the feeling of her warm breath against her ear.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” the Doctor notes, her voice betraying just how truly sad that makes her. “Did…Did I do something wrong?”

Yaz sighs again, leans her head back slightly on instinct as guilt and unrest pool in her stomach. She closes her eyes to feel a warm breath skirt over her cheek again. “No,” she says, defeated. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You can tell me,” the Doctor implores, moving her hands to hold Yaz’s shoulders securely. “I’m a very good listener.”

Yaz smiles at that, because yes, she _is_ a good listener. “I know.” 

After an expectant beat, she sighs in resignation, figuring that they can’t put it off any longer, and she searches for the right way to say all that troubles her. “You said you were a traveller, when we first met,” she starts, focusing hard on a burning star outside. “That you do what you can to fix things, to restore balance in the universe. 

Sometimes, I feel out of balance with you.” 

It sounded better in her head, and she cringes a little. She turns her head to look at the Doctor, fully prepared to see hurt on her face. 

There’s only confusion. “What do you mean?”

Yaz frowns, but doesn’t look away from her, needs to see that she understands. “I mean that sometimes, I give a lot more than I receive. Same with Ryan and Graham, I mean, you know everything about them. You know everything about _me,_ right down to the time I bumped my head on the stairs when I was four. But we don’t even know your name.”

That twitch is back, nervous and afraid, just under the Doctor’s jawline. Yaz wants to reach for it, soothe it under her thumb and gently nudge the Doctor into telling her everything, but she doesn’t. She draws the only logical conclusion that somewhere deep down, the Doctor doesn’t trust her, won’t ever trust her, and that hurts more than she could’ve ever imagined. She turns back to the window, stares out into space and braces herself for the feeling of hands leaving her body, as the Doctor inevitably backs away and walks out of her life forever. 

She has to swallow her surprise when arms wrap around her waist, tight and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she hears, thick and heavy and remorseful in her hair. 

Yaz says nothing, is scared to. She hadn’t expected this.

The Doctor sighs shakily into her hair, holds her tightly, and Yaz suddenly feels like this was a mistake, that she should never have said anything. She’d never meant to upset her like this, and maybe fairness was all relative. One wrong word, one misplaced breath, and she feels everything will be blown to Hell. 

There’s shaky silence for a moment before the Doctor speaks again. “There are things I can’t share,” she confesses, sounding painfully regretful. “And it’s not because I don’t trust you, or Ryan or Graham. The problem isn’t with you. It’s–” and her breath hitches, so the sentence goes unfinished, but Yaz already knows how it would’ve ended. 

She lifts her hands, lets them rest over the Doctor’s as they hold tightly to her. She hopes it’s enough to convey that it’s okay, that she’s listening, that she cares. “I get it,” she says. “I just don’t like to think of you as a stranger.”

Lips find her temple then, slip down to her jawline, and Yaz can’t help the sigh that escapes her, can’t stop the shiver that eclipses her. Suddenly, the Doctor is flush against her back, leaving not a detail of space between them. 

“Do I _feel_ like a stranger?”

“You feel like an ocean I can’t cross,” Yaz admits softly, the simplest and most accurate answer she can offer. “I’m resigned to drowning.”

“I’d never let you,” she promises, certain. “You have to believe that.”

A short, ironic laugh bubbles its way up Yaz’s throat then. “It’s far too late.”

And _shit_ , she should _not_ have said that. She’s said too much. She swallows hard and chances a glance at the Doctor, praying that she’d missed it, that she’s confused again, that she’s not as smart as she’s proven herself to be time and again. 

Yaz should be so lucky. 

The Doctor’s eyes have changed, have gone curious in a way that Yaz has never seen, and Yaz is caught by them, can’t look away. This is uncharted territory, hot and dangerous, and they shouldn’t be here. Yaz should leave, go back to Ryan and Graham, and the Doctor should go and find something to build, or find another planet to crash land on. 

Neither of them move. For a long moment, they just stare, before suddenly it’s too intense and Yaz has to look away, has to look back out the window before she really does drown. She drops her arms back down by her side, but those arms around her waist don’t move.

Hesitant and cautious, lips find her jaw again, part against her skin and breathe her in, and while Yaz expects them to move inward towards her cheek, they don’t. Suddenly, the Doctor’s mouth is on her neck, and there’s an ache between her legs that she desperately tries to ignore. But she’s a second too late to stifle the way her breath hitches in her throat.

The Doctor holds there for a few minutes, keeps her mouth parted against her flesh, but when a warm kiss is pressed very deliberately to her pulse point, the sigh that escapes Yaz is sharp and clear. 

“What are you doing?” She whispers, not trusting her own voice.

The Doctor kisses her neck again, lets her tongue dart out and soothe the skin. “Just let me,” she breathes against her, suddenly tensing for a second. “Unless you want me to stop?”

There’s no doubt in Yaz’s mind as she reaches for the Doctor’s hands, closes her eyes and guides them to the hem of her shirt, encouraging her to slip underneath. “Don’t stop,” she whispers. 

At the feeling of Yaz’s warm, bare skin, the Doctor moans low in her throat, flattens her palms against her and glides them up, dizzied by the feel of her. Yaz leans back into her and closes her eyes, lets her shirt be dragged up, lets her neck be teased and conquered. The throb between her legs is palpable now, demands attention, but Yaz is aware that this is new for them, new for the Doctor, and she doesn’t want to push. 

She does, however, need something else. She wastes no time in turning her head off to the side, seeking her out, seeking out the one thing she needs to feel right again, to feel whole. When their mouths meet, it’s soft and cautious, but everything in Yaz is relighting, reconnecting, and all the uncertainty and pain inside her soul begins to ebb away, replaced by the achievement of a dream. The Doctor has thrown her a life-raft, and Yaz clings to it like she’ll die if she lets go. 

It’s like the start of the universe all over again, and it’s the catalyst for every flame that burns between them. Yaz’s back finds the wall as the Doctor kisses her into oblivion, hard and passionate. Yaz whimpers onto her mouth, tangles her fingers in her hair and lets herself be swept under, lets the moans be stolen from her mouth, lets the heat in her body be crushed by the Doctor’s hands on her hips and under her backside. 

“C’mere,” the Doctor pleads against her mouth, panting slow and hard, desperate for closeness in a way that Yaz doesn’t understand. “ _Come here_.”

Yaz moans again, works through the haze in her mind to figure out what she means, but suddenly there are hands creeping down the backs of her thighs, gripping hold and forcing Yaz up off the ground. Yaz’s gasp of surprise is swallowed by the Doctor’s persistent mouth, and she wraps her legs around her to secure herself. So that’s what she meant.

“God,” Yaz whines as the Doctor slides down and buries herself in her throat, kissing and licking with such purpose that tears sting her eyes. A sudden pressure has Yaz gasping, bucking her hips deliciously into the Doctor’s stomach. “You bit me,” she realises with wide eyes. 

The Doctor looks at her then through hooded lids, her lips swollen and glossy, and she suddenly looks unsure. “Too much?”

Yaz shakes her head desperately, ducks her head to crash their mouths together. “Do it again,” she husks against her tongue, hands loose on either side of her neck. “Do it again.”

The Doctor grins at her, looks wicked in a way that Yaz never thought she’d see, and when teeth sink into her neck again, Yaz moans unashamedly, wraps her arms around the Doctor’s shoulders and throws her head back against the wall. “Yes!” She cries out, rolling her hips. “ _God_ , _yes_ , _like_ _that_.”

The heat in Yaz is white-hot now, and she needs things she never has before. With hurried hands, she reaches for the Doctor’s suspenders, snaps them off and reaches between their bodies for the hem of her shirt. She grabs both and yanks them up, struggles to get them off but when she does, she can’t help but gasp at the sight of the Doctor’s gorgeous skin and the pretty pink bra that she’d helped her pick out. 

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers, leaning in and kissing softly, once, twice, three times. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

The Doctor smiles against her mouth, takes a minute to stroke Yaz’s face with her fingers, their foreheads together. “So are you, Yasmin Khan,” she murmurs, her eyes holding all the sincerity in the world. “The most beautiful thing in the universe.”

 

 

Time is moving differently than Yaz has ever known, seeming to both blur past her and drag on, slow and detailed, all at once. She wants to understand why, wants to pinpoint the exact moment that the universe titled on its axis, but she realises now, half-naked in her bedroom and wrapped in the Doctor’s arms, that it isn’t (can’t be) one singular moment, that it shifts and redefines itself every time the Doctor kisses her.

Yaz has never been kissed like this, never knew it could be so powerful.

She’s also never seen the Doctor like this; her eyes — normally so green and so bright that they’re closer to the colour of seawater or pears — are black now, dominant and lustful, and her hands are growing bolder, more certain with every little sound that escapes from Yaz’s mouth. As those sounds grow breathier, more insistent, the Doctor kisses her deeper, uses rough hands to guide Yaz back against her bedroom door by her hips. In a flash, her jeans are down around her ankles, and suddenly the Doctor’s mouth is gone from hers, is dragging a hurried path over her shirt as she sinks down onto her knees in front of her.

Yaz gasps in pleasure, as strong hands slip underneath her panties and drag them down, sinfully slow. Her head falls back against the door as she feels eyes on her, drinking her in. “Please,” she husks out.

The Doctor moans at the sight of her glistening sex, going dizzy at how good she smells. “I need you,” she whispers, leaning forward and finally ducking her head to taste her.

Yaz tangles her fingers in the Doctor’s hair, moans unashamedly as her mouth crashes down on her, greedy and expertly.

And fuck, the Doctor really _is_ an expert at this, makes Yaz’s knees go weak within seconds, to the point where the only thing keeping her upright is the arm that slams suddenly across her hips. “Just like that,” Yaz whines, moving her hips hard against her lover’s face. “Don’t stop, fuck me just like that. Please don’t stop.”

The woman doesn’t stop, is utterly ravenous. Yaz fucks her face roughly, has to lift one leg over her shoulder when that familiar fire starts to build furiously inside her. “God I’m gonna cum,” she sobs out, gripping the Doctor’s hair and holding her in place. “I’m gonna cum in your mouth.”

The Doctor moans at that, approving, makes quick, deliberate strokes with her tongue until Yaz’s body has gone rigid and a scream has ripped from her throat.

She brings her down with soft licks and kisses, and Yaz’s whole body seems to deflate as the haze clears. She moans shakily as the Doctor slinks back up her body and kisses her, possibly more passionately than before. She tastes herself on her tongue and thinks she’s never tasted so good. 

Yaz thought they’d slow down now, but the Doctor is just as demanding. The Doctor hikes her up onto her hips again, draws a delighted gasp from her, and she carries her the short distance over to the bed, dropping her down and climbing on top of her, immediately kissing her hard again. Yaz moans and wraps her legs around her hips, already feeling that ache between her thighs again, even though she only came a minute ago. 

But she needs to feel her now. Needs to feel her come undone, needs to see what that looks like.

With this thought in mind, Yaz sits up, continues to kiss her as she grabs her hips, encourages her to straddle her thigh, grind down. It takes a minute – Yaz kisses her through her confusion at the different sensations she’s feeling – but as soon as she finds a rhythm that works, she’s gasping into Yaz’s cheek.

“Oh,” she sighs, her face smoothing over as it becomes less of a task, more of a mission. “That feels so _good_.”

Yaz groans low in her throat, lies back down on the bed and guides the Doctor’s hips, slow at first, until eventually the blonde is fucking herself hard on her thigh. It’s one of the hottest things Yaz has ever seen, and she becomes desperate for the Doctor’s orgasm, even more so than she had been for her own.

“Keep going,” she breathes out, almost growling when the Doctor’s head falls back, revealing a line of glistening sweat from her chin to her collarbones. Yaz keeps one hand on her hip, brings the other round to sex, itching to tip her over the edge. “Can I touch you?”

The Doctor nods breathlessly, practically wails when Yaz’s fingers slide through her wetness, intent on ruining her forever.

It doesn’t take long after that for the Doctor’s world to shatter, lost in the white-hot pleasure of Yaz’s touch.

 

 

Yaz, apparently and unbeknownst to herself, is insatiable.

“Don’t stop,” the Doctor sobs pleadingly, tangling her hands in her own hair and throwing her head back against the pillow, Yaz’s head buried mercilessly between her legs. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Yaz doesn’t stop, not even when the Doctor has cum. The blonde tries to push her head away but Yaz is relentless, attacks her clit with her tongue. The Doctor starts to cry out, her body still shaking from her last orgasm as another one creeps up on her. “ _Oh, God!”_ She cries out, tears filling her eyes as the pleasure wracks her body again. _“Yaz!”_

Fingers part her then, slip deep inside her and set a punishing pace. The Doctor screams bloody murder, turns her face into the pillow as her whole body jerks uncontrollably. She’s never been fucked like this, never felt pleasure like this, and she thinks she may never get enough. “ _YASMIN!”_

Yaz’s fingers are still inside her when the Doctor can finally see clearly again; the young woman has lost herself in the creamy expanse of her thighs, works to kiss every inch of skin available to her, slowly and gently. The blonde moans shakily, reaches down for Yaz’s face and pulls her up so she can kiss her.

It’s never felt more right, more perfect, and Yaz can’t help the smile that shines through her teeth. “You okay?” She whispers, nudging their noses together and stroking away the sweat-slicked locks from her foreheads.

The Doctor laughs then, breathless and open. “Oh, Yasmin Khan,” she whispers, grinning and cupping her face in one hand. “You’re the most exquisite thing in the universe.”

Yaz laughs too, collapsing on top of her and burying her face in her neck, satisfied to feel arms wrap around her. “Someone’s delirious.”

“Someone’s also going to be extremely sore tomorrow,” the Doctor murmurs in her ear, not sounding the least bit worried about it.

“Worth it, though,” Yaz whispers, moving up to kiss her softly. “Right?”

Hands find her face again, and the Doctor smiles like she has the sun in her mouth. “Right.”

Yaz watches the emotions roll over her face then, watches the shadows roll over her eyes. She frowns at her, but says nothing, lets her take her time.

“Yaz,” the Doctor whispers, her voice small and unsure.

“I’m here,” Yaz assures her, kissing her nose gently.

“You know I trust you,” she says, tears in her eyes. “I trust you completely, wholly.”

Her heart twinges; Yaz can’t help the part of her that wants to argue that point, in spite of the intimate time they’ve just spent together.

The Doctor seems to sense her hesitation, wraps her arms around her waist and leans up to kiss her chin. “I promise you. I promise you that I trust you.”

“I know,” Yaz murmurs, because deep down, she does know. She does know. “I don’t want to force you, or scare you off. I just-I just wanna know you. Crazy, wonderful, beautiful you.”

“Smooth,” the Doctor smiles shyly, a hint of a blush in her cheeks that is most definitely separate from her post-sex glow. There are a few moments of silence then, comfortable and easy, before the Doctor finally speaks again.

“I can try,” she offers, afraid and unsure but determined nonetheless, and it fills Yaz's soul with hope. “What do you want to know?”

And so, they start small; little questions with uncomplicated answers, and it gets easier, more natural. They take breaks every now and then to rediscover each other’s bodies, to laugh and tell jokes, to simply lie silent, wrapped up in one another. By the time they reach the harder questions, the Doctor feels safer, feels confident enough to share the parts of herself that had previously been hidden.

And Yaz listens with rapt attention, listens to her talk about Gallifrey and her family, holds her through the hard parts and tickles her sides until she’s laughing through her tears. It’s in one such moment that Yaz realises something, something that she should’ve seen before:

She sounds like them, her accent broad and unequivocal, and she realises that it is a reminder that home is always waiting. It’s grounding, and comforting, and honest, and it’s always been there – just when Yaz would feel that she’s been away too long, the Doctor would make a very British joke, or ask her “you want a cuppa?”, and looking back, the young police officer realises that it had been, and is, a reminder that Sheffield is never as far away as she thinks.

It’s the greatest gift she could ask for, and Yaz hopes, as she lies entwined with the woman who fell from the stars, that her voice can one day be enough to remind the Doctor that she too will always have a place to call her own.

 


End file.
